


Lilies.

by bokutowl



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bullying, Childhood, Gen, I'd like to blame twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2122317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutowl/pseuds/bokutowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’d be later, when he’s flipping through an identification book with tear tracks staining his cheeks, when the crushed red petals are wilting by the seconds in his hands that he’d learn they were called lilies.</p><p>{[Child!Ushijima fic.]}</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lilies.

**Author's Note:**

> Ushi is around seven or eight in this. I don't own Haikyuu. Be glad I don't. I shouldn't. Why am I here. I am sorry

His favorite flowers were those red ones that looped up at the edges—he couldn’t remember the name of it for the life of him, and he’d just have to ask his mother as soon as he recalled to do so. They smelled nice, like the morning, and they had long thin stems that made it easy to have a lot of them in one place.

(It’d be later, when he’s flipping through an identification book with tear tracks staining his cheeks, when the crushed red petals are wilting by the seconds in his hands that he’d learn they were called lilies.)

At breakfast—

“Waka—“ He never _wouldn’t_ frown at his mother’s nickname for him, even if his frown was over his favorite meal of omelets and rice. “—don’t look at me like that, dear. Your face’ll stay that way and it isn’t cute.” A grumble, and he took another bite of food. She smiled, as if expecting such a reaction, continuing seamlessly. “Come straight home after school today, okay? There’s planting to do.”

Ushijima nodded wordlessly, legs swinging as he scarfed down his food. Come home early, alright, that wasn’t that hard to remember.  He’d just, write it on his hand or something.

After he finished inhaling his food (and the seconds and thirds), he grabbed his small bag and headed out the door with little more than a wave to his mother and a scratching of a marker on his palm.

She didn’t expect much more, of course.

At school—

He already had more important things on his mind, and he was two steps away from entering the building that he thought to rather just skip class that day altogether.

(There was reasoning in his mind that the end justified the means. Or something like that.)

So he skirted to the side of the school, just under the windows of the building, right out of sight. The young boy gave glances to the left and right, making sure the coast was clear as he kneeled down on the ground before the object of his fascination in the first place.

The red flowers.

The lightest of smiles, one that turned just the very corners of his lips and crinkled the very edges of his dirty-green eyes, pulled at his lips as he examined them with wonder, unhidden intrigue, and—

There was a bit of pride to be had, of course, for the flowers were those he had planted himself; transported from home while little buds in wet plastic bags, hidden from teachers and his mother alike.

(Or, at least, he _thought_ he had hidden them from his mother. It was eerie how the bags had been tucked neatly in his backpack in a way to not damage them. Huh…)

Shaking his head to get the slightly-shaggy black hair out of his eyes, Ushijima started counting the stems of the flowers, using the marker from his backpack to update the running tally he had, rather carelessly, written on the outer brick of the school.

“Eleven…” A bit of a wider smile now, and he put the marker back away in favor of pulling out a water bottle—always packed, always full before he left home—and unscrewing it in favor of drizzling some of the water down on the petals of the pretty flowers.

Even after he was finished with his daily dose of admiration and awe for the flowers, Ushijima didn’t feel like going back in to class— more questions and quips would be posed of him coming in late, dirt on his cheeks and under his fingernails, rather than if he just didn’t come in at all.

So, he placed his backpack down for a makeshift headrest, staring at the clouds and falling asleep not soon after, an arm strewn over his stomach and the other over his eyes in an attempt to block out some of the light. The soft snoring and lack of a care for the missed lunch an hour and a half into his nap were clear signs the boy was tired; wordlessly helping his mother any chance he got, learning how to do as much as he could with his pudgy little hands, was taking the smallest of tolls on his little body.

Of course, he was tall for his age— a couple centimeters above all the rest of the boys, his stocky figure and squishy cheeks hopeful inclinations of the body to come a few years down the road. His mother calmed his voiceless concerns every time Ushijima gave a pinch to his cheeks or hunched a tad in his posture with a “You’ll grow into all of that, you will!” and a warm smile to match.  A grumble of “Mothers _have_ to say that.” and his mother would just smoosh his cheeks and laugh heartily.  It was comforting, though, a fact he’d never admit— but a part of him knew he didn’t have to.

The relaxing of his shoulders and brightening of his eyes were easy enough to no—

There was dirt in his face and a crunch.

Sitting up abruptly, his first look was to the crushed plastic water bottle a foot or two away, then at the owner of the foot that had done the deed. Ushijima didn’t say a word as he brushed the dirty off his eyes, frown deepening a tad as he glanced at the fistful of dirt still in the other boy’s hand.

“You weren’t in class today, Ushijima-kun.” The dark haired boy remained silent, even as two others appeared—probably friends of the first boy, Ushijima was never one to pay attention to those that surrounded him in class. “I _know_ you weren’t.”

“Why does he get to skip class and—” Boy Number Two cocked his head to the side, looking to the eleven stalks of red flowers to the left of Ushijima. “—mess with flowers!”

He wanted to say that he wasn’t ‘messing’ with anything. He was growing them. Taking care of them. Making sure they grew really pretty and big, like flowers are supposed to. But, alas, all he could manage as he sat up from the ground was a mumble of, “…not messing with them.” The taste of dirt was still on his tongue but he didn’t mind that so much in the minute.

Boy Number One— “You are! It’s not fair you get to mess with flowers while we have to work! You won’t learn anything!”

Boy Number Three had been quiet up until this point, but he supplied, “He already doesn’t learn anything. I haven’t heard a full sentence from him in months.”

“What were you gonna do with the flowers anyway, huh?” Boy Number Two nudges the flowers with his foot, a look of disdain on his face.

It was almost instant—Ushijima scrambled straight up, dirt still smudge on his face. “Don’t—” He wasn’t the best at talking to people. He doubted he’d get good at it. “—Don’t put your foot on them like th-that.” A stutter of nervousness was the only thing that broke the barrier of the possible intimation of his frown, and the boys— the boys laughed.

“What? So you can crush them yourself?” Ushijima’s eyes widened in fear, and he shook his head wildly, not even fathoming how they’d come up with such a thought.

“N-No. I—” Every stutter was a weapon against himself, he knew.

“It’s not like you could do anything else, right?” Boy Number Three grinned, foot raising. “Ne, Ushijima-kun, we can save you the trouble!” The young boy with a dirty shirt and dirt-stained cheeks couldn’t keep the hot tears out of his eyes as he watched the weeks of hard work and actual contentment get squished— under the raggedy shoe of the laughing classmate.

He grit his teeth, his lip wobbled, and he balled up his little fists but he was unconfrontational to its core, not moving an inch; he let the tears dry clean tracks on his face, and he didn’t say a word until the boys were gone and he was kneeling down in front of those flowers, counting again.

“O-One, tw-two, th-three—” He couldn’t see through the tears, so he found himself wiping frantically at his eyes with his palms in favor of drying up his face as quickly as possible. It burned, friction stung, but he kept going until he was satisfied he could see clearly.

There were four flowers standing now, all with a pedal or two that had a chip or dent in it. The ends weren’t as curly anymore, the color hand been rubbed a tad, but—he figured they would have to do.

Grabbing his crushed water bottle, he looked inside of it to see if there were in drops of water left. Finding it had a little bit left, Ushijima began to slowly clean the pedals of the flowers, bending down close and pouring water while rubbing them softly with his fingers until some of the dirt came off. He knew all of it, or even most of it, wouldn’t, but he figured that an attempt wouldn’t hurt.

Once he reasoned he was done, he softly plucked the four flowers from the ground, making sure to leave the stem long, and he gathered his backpack and gave one last rub to his face.

He trudged home, eyes cast downwards at the four flowers in his dirty fist, his lips twisted into a frown more directed at himself than anything.

Maybe he should have planted them further away from the school, maybe he shouldn’t have planted them at all. Maybe he would have just crushed them. Maybe it was unfair of him.

His foot wasn’t even fully in the house when he remembered— he opened his empty palm, looking at the tear-smudged black marker that had meant to be a reminder. Before he could make a single movement, his mother was in front of him, her knees instantly hitting the wood of the porch as she bent down to give a wipe to his dirty face. “Wakatoshi, where have you been, why are you so—”

He held up the flowers, pushing them towards her slightly. “E-Eleven. There were… supposed to be eleven, b-but…” Ushijima clenched his teeth to keep the hiccup of a sob from bubbling up from his throat. His mother stared for a single moment before she smiled softly, wrapping her son in a hug.

Even as she felt the shoulder of her shirt dampen, and the arms around her neck tighten, she kept hugging him, whispering soothingly into his ear, “I’m okay with four. They’re really pretty, and I’m really happy.”

**Author's Note:**

> i am still sorry


End file.
